The Unmaking
by Cassia Sidra
Summary: The Ring could not be unmade by any power less than Sauron's own. This is not a problem for Feanor. Oneshot, very AU, hopefully funny. Unfortunately, I forgot the name of the author who gave me this idea. Thank you, whoever you are.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that belongs to Tolkien. I am but a humble fanfic author.**

_This is my first story here on . Don't worry, though- I can take critisism. Here goes nothing…._

The Council of Elrond was going quite well, proceeding according to the generally accepted canon of the LotR-verse. The attendees were all speaking in turn, with no Mary-sues or OOC monsters running around and generally causing chaos. The Council was just proceeding, quite normally, to the issue of what was to be done about the Ring, when an Elven guard (who shall be known for the sake of clarity as Laerist) rose a frantic cry. "Noldo! Noldo! Unidentified Noldo!" Laerist yelled. The Council members were, understandably, puzzled, Elrond most of all. Noldor could usually be identified, especially with the deficit of Elves around at the moment.

"Bring him here, guard!" Elrond shouted. The Council members shifted their feet nervously, wondering who could possibly be intruding on such a momentous occasion. A moment later, Laerist arrived- or rather, a tall, imposing Noldo arrived, with Laerist trailing behind in his shadow. He (the Noldo) looked rather peeved, as if he had expected something quite different. Disdain fairly rolled off of him in waves.

"I was told this was a great stronghold of the Noldor in Middle-earth.... Just goes to show how trustworthy those Vanyar are," he muttered. Drawing himself up to his full height, he began to speak, sounding like he was making a royal proclamation. Of course, he might have been doing just that. "I am Fëanáro, son of Finwë, greatest of the Noldor. I search for the Silmarils. You will either aid me, or you will assist me. Well? What say you?" At that point, several elves, whose names shall not be mentioned, fainted. Elrond, being one of the ones to retain his consciousness, stood up warily. Having been raised by a Noldo, he had a fair idea of how to deal with a Fëanorean. And, being a Noldo himself, he felt rather obliged to aid one of his own kin. Well, a little. This _was_ Fëanor.

"Of course, Great Fëanáro. The Great Foe has not gone unconquered, and your great treasures shall not remain hidden. Now, what aid do you desire, great one?" Elrond flinched mentally. He hadn't had a reason to defer to anyone in quite a while.

"Ah, finally. A reasonable Elda," he said, seeming to grow a few inches taller. "I have heard that two of my sons obtained the remaining Silmarils. Have you seen them? One is tall, taller than me, with red hair, and...."

"Forgive me, sir, but I know of Maglor and Maedhros." _'Their names are now used to frighten children_,' he added mentally. "Maedhros is long dead, and Maglor.... Nobody really knows what happened to Maglor. Maedhros' Silmaril fell into the chasms of Arda with him, and Maglor cast his into the deeps of the sea. The third is carried by Eärendil. It's not a good idea to ignore the will of the Valar..." Elrond cringed as he realized what he had just said. Fëanor would ignore the will of _Eru_ to get the Silmarils back. He probably already had.

To Elrond's surprise, Fëanor just nodded. "I always knew those two would be the last alive. So, how long ago did all of this happen? It can't have been more than two hundred years or so since I died...." He shuddered, as if remembering something.

"It's been about three ages," Erestor said, standing up. "Sauron has been defeated twice, and we are aiming for a third time. Sauron was Morgo..."

"Yes, his lieutenant. I spent _some_ time looking at Viarë's tapestries, you know. Had to soften Námo's wife up...." Feanor cut in. Suddenly, his fists tightened. "That thieving, scheming Black Foe! I heard he's been thrown into the Void. I might find time to unseat this Sauron, once I find the Silmarils."

One or two gasps were heard from the Council. It wasn't often that a legend stepped into a secret council and casually assumed that he could defeat your greatest foe. Double points if that legend was Feanor. Glorfindel, after a slight pause, rose and gave an elegant bow. Well, more like an elegant nod. Reincarnated balrog-slayers are even less accustomed to deference than the lord of Imladris. "Ah, Feanor. I have seen your legendary crafting skills, and I know they are far superior to those of our abhorrent foe. He has made a ring, after the fashion of your grandson Celebrimbor, to rule over the nations of the world. It cannot be unmade by any craft less than his own, but if it were, his power would crumble. I propose an agreement. You shall unmake the Ring, and we will give you something in return."

Fëanor's eyebrow rose slightly. He appeared to be considering something. At last, he spoke. "Very well, then. You shall provide horses, guards, and provisions, or I shall leave you to deal with that pitiful excuse for a Maia yourselves. Well? What say you?"

Elrond at once looked immensely relieved. He had expected Feanor to demand nothing less than a Silmaril. "Agreed. You shall unmake the Ring, and I will supply what you asked. But, if I may ask one question..." Feanor tapped his foot impatiently.

"What is it?"

"Why did you not ask for a Silmaril, or at least for the whereabouts of one? I had thought for certain..."

"Oh, I know already know about the Silmarils. You told me, remember? Two are lost, and one is borne by your father. I know something of you, enough to assume you would not try to coerce your father into handing over the Silmarils. My son has told me..."

"Maglor is dead?" Elrond's face was a picture of composure. It was so composed, in fact, that it could not but have been hiding something.

"No, no, not Macalaurë. The other- Maitimo. We have talked quite a bit since he died. In fact, he told me quite a bit about a certain pair of half-elves."

"Wait... I thought you didn't know where Maedhros was," Erestor said.

"I lied. Really- I incite the first slaying of Elves by Elves and you expect me to be truthful? Besides, I..."

Glorfindel cleared his throat, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow. Feanor shot him a Death Glare, but the golden-haired Ellon just glared back. Feanor sighed ruefully and continued. "And where is this Ring of yours? Who possesses it? Or, as seems to be the case with such things, who does it possess? Speak!" Frodo, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of astonishment and trepidation plastered on his face, hesitantly stood up and placed the Ring on a pedestal. Feanor shook his head and smiled ruefully. "Ah, if a _Maia _cannot now do better than this..." Still smiling sadly, he examined the Ring carefully, writing notes on a sheet of parchment. No one had quite seen where the paper and quill had come from. This was more disconcerting than it would appear to one who one who hadn't seen it- or rather _not _seen it.

"Ah, a hairline scratch on the inner edge, evidence of a careless smith. Some uneven coloring in places.... Actually, the whole thing's quite shoddy. I would hope that my grandson did better than _this_. Curufin always did take after me, but that Sindarin wife of his... He never would have married her if I'd been alive." Several gasps of astonishment were heard from the Council members, some of which had just been revived. Most of them had known Curufin's wife, and she was as fine a lady as one could hope to meet. Erestor's glare silenced them.

"I am ready," intoned Fëanor. (Yes, intoned really is the right word to be used in this instance.) "This really ought not to be so hard. Have none of you taken a close look at it before?" The Council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. No one really wanted to explain the gravity of the situation to an Elf who had murdered the Teleri brutally- especially the few Teleri attending. "Fine, fine. Show me to the smithy, one of you." He pointed to a cluster of black-haired Elves. The foremost stood up warily and escorted Feanor out of the Council. When Feanor was no longer visible, several other Elves took the liberty of fainting. Bilbo cast a sympathetic glance at Frodo, who just shook his head and sat as the color drained out of his face. Finally, after a long, excruciating silence, a tactless Elf spoke up.

"Well," he said, "who's ready for lunch?"


End file.
